


Addio

by alwaysastorm



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Formula One, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysastorm/pseuds/alwaysastorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written at the beginning of 2010 for the LiveJournal F1 Slash Kink meme.</p>
<p>
  <i>Kimi hears the door slam as the last of the cleaners leave the building. It’s just him now, save for a few night staff. His trainered feet make no sound as he paces along the carpeted floor of Maranello for what, he supposes, will be the last time.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addio

**Maranello, November 2009**

Kimi hears the door slam as the last of the cleaners leave the building. It’s just him now, save for a few night staff. His trainered feet make no sound as he paces along the carpeted floor of Maranello for what, he supposes, will be the last time. It’s late, and the building has been plunged into darkness. Photographs from the past line the walls, peering down at him, but he doesn’t look back. His face is there too, of course. He wonders if he will stay there. Perhaps in a dusty corner somewhere. A broom cupboard. His hands are empty – he had no desk to clear out, no possessions that he’d left here, no mementos that he cared to keep. He plunges his hands into his pockets, feeling for his car keys. Soon he will be gone, all his goodbyes said. His mechanics had shaken his hand warmly, and the factory staff had bid him farewell, and that was that. He feels much the same as he did when he first walked in here on that cold Northern Italian morning in early 2007. He’s never gotten the Ferrari myth. Admittedly he’s never tried, but they all knew that when he came here. He came to get them victories - there was no part of his contract that said he had to go misty-eyed when the Cavallino was pressed against his chest. It’s a badge, a mascot. It’s not real. Kimi doesn’t care about the marque’s history – he cares about tyres, and engines, and fuel consumption. The car could have been painted bright green for all he cared; what was so special about rosso corsa anyway. 

As he strides further along he allows himself to glance at the sepia photographs of bygone days. Here, in the dark, others might find Maranello atmospheric; spooky even. He doesn’t feel the echoes of history; doesn’t hear the voices from days gone by; doesn’t sense all that is great about the Gestione Sportiva. He’s heard the tales of Enzo, of von Trips and Villeneuve, and not been affected. He will never ‘feel’ what others here feel about them all; will never experience the reverence that he sees in even his teammate’s eyes when those names are mentioned. These hallways were never his dream in the way that they were Gilles’ or Alesi’s or Massa’s. Winning Championships was his dream.

Kimi nears Stefano’s office and his eyes narrow. He doesn’t know who made the choice to get rid of him, Domenicali or de Montezemolo. What does it matter now? What’s done is done and there will be other teams, teams where he won’t be pressured into acting like he gives a damn about what has happened in the past. He is slightly startled as he hears someone clearing their throat, and inwardly groans as he realises Stefano is still here too. There is no way to walk past without being seen.

“Kimi?”

“I’m just leaving,” Kimi replies, sounding snappier than he intended. He pauses in the doorway, hoping he can say a quick goodbye and get out of here as quickly as possible.

“Come in Kimi, please.”

Stefano stands by his desk, the room unlit apart from the outdoor lights beaming in through the window. 

“I was saying goodbye to Chris,” Kimi explains.

“Yes of course,” Stefano replies. “Good.”

He gives a wan smile as he looks down at his desk, and Kimi realises that this is the first time he has ever seen Stefano with his glasses off. He looks younger, but tireder. Somewhere in Kimi’s gut he feels a pang of sympathy for the Italian. He works hard. They all do, here, but it’s Stefano that has to take the criticism, the stick from the national press when the team fail. Kimi thinks of how maybe he failed, too, but pushes the thought away. He has done a good enough job to deserve to stay. He knows this.

“It’s... been good working with you,” Kimi offers hesitantly, at a loss for what else to say. Stefano, normally so verbose, is quiet, and it’s unsettling. Kimi begins to back out of the room.

“Please,” Stefano says, rifling in his desk drawer. “Let me give you something. A reminder of your time with us.”

He hands Kimi a rectangular black velvet box, embossed with the word ‘Ferrari’ in that familiar font. Kimi runs his finger over it before lifting the lid. Inside is a navy blue pure silk tie, with that horse, that fucking Prancing Horse on it. The bile seems to start churning in his stomach. Why give him this? What use is it to him?

“Thankyou,” he nods, before realising that he has no longer any need to be polite to this man, no longer any need to keep his mouth shut.

“What the fuck would I need this for now?” he spits.

Stefano looks taken aback, even more so when Kimi kicks the office door shut with his heel.

“Kimi,” Stefano begins calmly, approaching the Finn. “I’m sorry. These things happen. You have been in this sport long enough to know that contracts can be broken.”

“Yes, even by this team,” Kimi sneers. “And you talk about the family, about loyalty?”

He takes the tie from its box, which he throws onto the floor. He twists the material in his hands, creasing it and breaking the delicate fibres of the silk.  
Stefano places a hand on Kimi’s arm to calm him. Kimi grips it, about to push it away angrily, but instead he grabs Stefano’s wrist, feeling his heart start to pound with rage – and something else as the frustrations of the past few months come to a head. Stefano tries to tug his arm away, but Kimi is younger, fitter, stronger. He lifts Stefano’s other wrist, devilment in his eyes as he forces the older man’s arms behind his back, wrapping the tie around them and locking them in place with a tight knot. Finding no resistance, he pushes Stefano forward so his former boss’s thighs are pressed firmly against the desk. Kimi stands behind him, leaning forward with his hands on Stefano’s shoulders so he can both steady him, and hiss into his ear.

“I want to know why.”

“There is no single reason, Kimi...”

Kimi reaches around Stefano’s body, unbuckling the belt on his black suit trousers. He unzips them unmercifully slowly, before letting them fall to the ground. His fingers linger on the waistband of Stefano’s boxer shorts.

“Tell me why.”

“Alonso... he has more to offer.”

Kimi pulls the boxers down, sliding his hand between Stefano’s legs, asking them to part. The older man complies, and Kimi finds himself biting down on his shoulder, tasting his skin. Stefano leans his head back with a sigh. Kimi isn’t sure if it’s from pain or pleasure.

“Who was it? Was it you? Or was it Montezemolo?”

Stefano doesn’t answer. Kimi bites again, sinking his teeth further into the soft flesh this time. The taste, the smell makes his dick start to harden and Kimi runs his hand along Stefano’s torso. He jumps a little as he hears the door click, and when he turns, he sees that it is now slightly ajar.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks.

Stefano answers, his voice thick, slightly amused.

“Maybe a draught. Maybe a ghost.”

Kimi clasps a hand over Stefano’s mouth. With his other hand, he yanks down his jeans, pulling out his thick cock and plunging it inside the other man unmercifully. He feels Stefano trying to resist, trying to get away, but his bound wrists impede him, and his protests are muffled by Kimi’s hand. Kimi stays inside him for a few seconds, wondering if he’s gone too far, if this is too much, but when he moves his hand from Stefano’s mouth downward to his dick, Kimi’s relieved to find the Italian is hard. He begins to thrust, gently at first, then harder as Stefano starts to pant. Kimi can see the beads of sweat forming in the small of his back, his wrists still firmly fastened there.

“This is how it feels,” Kimi whispers bitterly. “This is how it feels to be fucked by people you thought you trusted. It was you, wasn’t it? You made the choice.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stefano replies breathlessly.

Thrust.

“You just weren’t right for the Scuderia.”

Thrust.

“Montezemolo and I agreed...”

Thrust.

“...that it would have to be you that made way.”

Thrust.

“We needed another Schumacher and you weren’t him.”

When he hears the name that he has come to loathe, Kimi pounds into Stefano with such a force that he surprises even himself. He feels his orgasm building, and as a last act of defiance, comes inside the other man, before pulling out quickly.

Stefano gives a slight moan as he turns around, the tops of his thighs covered in red marks where they have been banging into the desk. His dick is still semi-hard, and Kimi looks down at it with a mixture of disgust and satisfaction. He sneers.

“Maybe Alonso will take care of that. Is that what you want from your champions?” 

He takes Stefano’s head in his hands and places a kiss on each cheek, laughing to himself; mocking the Italian culture of the team. 

“ _Arrivederci_ , Stefano. Or should I say ‘ _Addio_ ’.”

Kimi strides outside into the deserted Maranello courtyard. It’s dark, and deathly silent, and his footsteps echo as he walks to his car. He hears other footsteps, and realises he’s not alone. A voice pierces the darkness. A voice that’s singing, quietly, almost menacingly. Kimi recognises the tune – after all, he’s heard it played especially for him nine times over the past three seasons.

“ _Fratelli d'Italia, l'Italia s'è desta, dell'elmo di Scipio, s'è cinta la testa..._ ”

As the singing stops, Kimi feels a vice-like grip on his shoulder. He’s felt that hand before, back when he was in silver. It had been benevolent, protective then. But now it feels malevolent. He turns to Luca, trying to smile but not entirely sure it won’t come across as the grimace it truly is.

“My boy,” Luca begins. “If only you had shown that kind of dominance on the track, you might still be part of the Scuderia.”

Montezemolo runs a thin hand along Kimi’s cheek before turning on his heel and walking away.

Kimi suddenly feels very cold. As the moon is obscured by a cloud, he looks over at Enzo’s house, at the factory, at the ground beneath his feet. The wind whistles around the courtyard, making the red shutters on the windows of the house rattle. It echoes off the buildings and sends shivers down his spine. Standing there, utterly alone for the first time since he joined the team, Kimi finally feels the famed sense of Maranello history. He can hear the whispers of days gone by, the roar of V6s and V12s, the chanting of the tifosi; and he can feel the eyes of the greats of the past watching him, judging him, almost laughing at his departure. He shudders.

He will be glad to leave this place.


End file.
